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Sunday was not used to this. He was always someone who lived a quiet life—in a way, he adhered strictly to the rules, always doing what was best for the family and what he was told to do. He always had a strict plan he followed and would get rid of any insignificance that would get in the way of his order.
Unlike Aventurine. Aventurine was a man who lived his life full of risks, gambling, and enjoying the thrill of unknowing outcomes.
Sunday never truly understood Aventurine; in fact, he even sort of disliked him, but he couldn't do anything about it since, in a way, Aventurine didn't get in the way of his order as he wasn't actively doing something that broke the balance that Sunday had; no, he was just around, and that infuriated Sunday.
"Aren't you bored?" A man spoke, making Sunday lift up his gaze from his desk, and there it was the man who infuriated him.
Without muttering a word, Sunday raised an eyebrow in confusion, which was followed by a low chuckle from the blonde man.
"You know what I'm talking about." Aventurine's voice was laced with amusement. "You don't leave the class—like never."
"And is that an issue?" Sunday spoke firm, yet he always tried to maintain a sweet tone for some reason.
"Not all; I'm just surprised someone like you isn't out being surrounded by people or friends; after all, you are a popular guy, yet you don't seem to like the attention."
As the blonde talked, he slowly walked around the boy's desk carefree, his gaze not leaving his as Sunday kept his gaze forward, trying to ignore Aventurine's presence.
"You're mysterious." He mocked.
"And you're insufferable." Sunday said it almost immediately.
These types of interactions were the ones that disrupted Sunday's peace. After all, everything about that man infuriated him on so many levels, for example, the way that he wouldn't leave him alone, always trying to make a small chat with him, even suggesting himself as a group partner when the class obligates Sunday to interact with another person for work.
That alone stirs something in Sunday, as he likes to be alone and in quiet peace, something that Aventurine doesn't seem to understand.
However, there are a few small habits that also cause him some irritation. For example, Aventurine had the habit of trying to maintain eye contact with Sunday even with force, like grabbing his chin on occasions when Sunday was trying to ignore the blonde as much as he could. God, how he hated the feeling of his fingers on his chin.
Sunday detested those long, slender fingers that would tighten their grip on his chin. He hated the way Aventurine's touch felt—both firm and gentle at the same time, those smooth fingers with their soft, warm palms. It was infuriating how something so delicate could unsettle him so much.
Yet, despite his aversion, there was an undeniable allure to Aventurine's hands. They were graceful, almost elegant in their movements. Sunday found himself distracted by the way those fingers moved when Aventurine spoke, how they gestured with a certain finesse that was hard to ignore.
He hated the way they lingered, the way they made his skin tingle with a strange mix of irritation and something he couldn't quite place. It was maddening, how he found his eyes drawn to those hands, how he couldn't help but notice the care with which Aventurine treated them, almost as if they were works of art.
Sunday tried to convince himself that it was pure loathing that he felt, but a small part of him wondered if there was more to it.
He sat on his bed, staring at the ceiling, lost in thought, the quiet hum of the night enveloping him. How could a man who irritated him so much occupy his mind like this? He despised everything about Aventurine—the way he spoke, the way he moved, the way he always seemed to find a way to invade his space.
But there was something else, a strange sensation that he couldn't quite shake off. It was more than just annoyance; it was something deeper, something that made his heart race and his thoughts blur. He hated the way Aventurine's presence lingered in his mind long after their encounters had ended.
Sunday sighed, frustrated with himself. He began to unbutton his shirt, needing to feel the cool air against his skin, hoping it would clear his mind. As he slipped the shirt off, he couldn't help but think about how wrong this was. To think of another man like this—especially one like Aventurine—was a sin, a violation of everything he had been taught to believe.
He sat on the edge of his bed, shirtless, his hand slowly trailing down his chest, fingers brushing against his skin as if trying to chase away the lingering thoughts. His breath hitched, his mind conjuring up images of those infuriatingly graceful hands. How could someone he claimed to hate make him feel like this?
He continued to explore his body, his touch growing more deliberate. His fingers traced the contours of his chest, the curve of his ribs, and down to his stomach. Each touch sent a shiver through him, his mind filled with a confusing mix of irritation.
As his hand moved lower, he felt his breathing become more ragged. He closed his eyes, trying to focus on the sensations coursing through him. His legs, once rigid with tension, began to relax under his own touch. His fingers danced across his thighs, the sensation sending electric shocks through his nerves.
It was as if his own touch had taken on a new meaning, each caress tinged with the memory of Aventurine's hands. His breaths came faster, his body responding to the imagined presence of the man who both infuriated and intrigued him. He hated how much he wanted to feel those fingers on his skin, how his mind kept returning to the thought of Aventurine.
Sunday's hand stilled on his thigh, his chest heaving with each breath. He lay there, caught in the confusing swirl of emotions. How could he despise someone so much yet crave their touch so intensely? The thought was maddening, leaving him restless and yearning for something he couldn't quite name.
How could he feel this way about another man? It was wrong, he told himself. It was sinful. His faith had taught him that such thoughts were impure, yet here he was, unable to stop himself. He didn't understand these feelings, didn't understand himself anymore.
Sunday's hand trembled as it lingered on his thigh, the warmth of his skin a stark contrast to the cold dread settling in his chest. He struggled to reconcile his desires with his beliefs, his mind a chaotic storm of conflicting emotions. The thought of Aventurine's hands, those graceful fingers that both tormented and fascinated him, was a constant presence in his mind.
"No, this can't be right," he whispered to himself, shaking his head as if to dispel the images. "I shouldn't feel this way."
He closed his eyes, trying to push the thoughts away, but they kept returning with relentless persistence. His breath quickened as his hand moved instinctively, tracing the lines of his body. He felt a surge of heat, a desperate need to understand these feelings that had taken hold of him.
"This is wrong... so wrong," Sunday muttered, but his hands betrayed him, moving to unbutton his pants. As he slipped them off along with his boxers, exposing more of his skin to the cool air, a shiver ran through him. He couldn't stop himself; the need to feel something, to make sense of his turmoil, was overwhelming.
His touch grew more deliberate, exploring the contours of his chest, down his abdomen, and across his thighs. Each caress sent waves of sensation through him, a heady mix of frustration and desire. Sunday couldn't help but imagine Aventurine's hands in place of his own, the thought making his heart race even faster.
"Why do you make me feel this way?" he asked the empty room, his voice tinged with frustration and longing. "Why can't I get you out of my head?"
It was wrong, he reminded himself again. But the more he tried to resist, the stronger the pull became. His breaths came in shallow gasps as his fingers traced the sensitive skin of his inner thigh slowly making its way towards his length, his body responding in ways he didn't fully comprehend. He could almost feel Aventurine's presence, the memory of his touch lingering on his skin.
As he continued, a low groan escaped his lips, the sound echoing in the quiet room. "Aventurine—" he whispered, the name slipping past his lips like a forbidden prayer. He hated how much he wanted this, how much he craved the touch of someone he claimed to despise. The thought of Aventurine's fingers, so infuriatingly gentle and firm, was all he could think about.
Sunday's up and down movements became more urgent, driven by a need he couldn't suppress. His mind was a haze of conflicting emotions, his body betraying the turmoil within. He imagined Aventurine's hands guiding his around his cock, the thought sending shivers down his spine.
"Why do I want you?" he gasped, his voice raw with desperation as he whimpered. "Why do I need you?"
The tension built within him, a crescendo of sensations that left him breathless and trembling. As he finally reached climax, the peak of his frustration and desire, a ragged sigh escaped his lips, his body shuddering with the intensity of the moment.
Sunday lay there for a moment, trying to catch his breath, his mind slowly returning from the haze of desire. He lifted his hand, staring at it, sticky with cum. The sight made his stomach twist with shame as he tried to suppress the sudden urgency of letting tears fall down his eyes.
"What have I done?" he whispered to himself, his voice barely audible in the quiet room. He couldn't believe he had let himself go like that, all because of thoughts about the blonde.
"What would Aventurine say if he saw me like this?" he wondered aloud, the thought sending a shiver through him. Would he mock him, that ever-present smirk on his face? Or would he be surprised, maybe even intrigued?
"He'd probably laugh," Sunday muttered, a bitter edge to his voice. "He'd find it amusing, wouldn't he? Seeing me like this, so... vulnerable."
But another part of him wondered if Aventurine would understand. Would he recognize the conflict, the struggle between arousing feelings and belief? Sunday couldn't help but think about those moments when Aventurine had looked at him, really looked at him, as if seeing something more than just the surface.
"Would you mock me?" he asked the empty room, his voice trembling. "Or would you see... this?" He glanced at his hand again, feeling a strange… well, feeling, of embarrassment.
As he lay there, the image of Aventurine's hands returned, the memory of their imagined touch still vivid in his mind. He tried to shake the thought away, but it clung to him, a reminder of the thin line between hate and something far more complicated.
He sighed, knowing sleep would not come easily. His mind was a whirl of conflicting emotions, his body still thrumming with the aftershocks of desire.
what was he supposed to do with these feelings?